The great chiefs are gone, their peace pipes lying in the sands of the four winds, cold and forlorn, waiting again to be born. No Indian ponies, unshod, rush to the beat of war drums in the sky, and no wigwams warmed by smoldering fires stand on the nearby horizons. The lilting song of the beautiful Indian maiden is gone. Though they are not here, their souls live boldly on in the legend's haze of the Great Spirit, and the spirit of their souls shall never die.